‘So?’ says Polly hopefully. ‘Can I upload it?’
‘Oh God, go on then.’ She’s never going to let this go, and I suppose there’s no harm in putting myself on the site. I don’t have to go on any dates, after all.
‘Yay!’ says Polly, clicking away happily. ‘Right, you get changed. I’ll do this then I’ll go and play with Henry. I’ve set you up a new email address for all the replies, OK? So you can keep it separate. I’ll send the details to your normal email address.’
I try on about five of my ‘best’ outfits, but I look overdressed and try-hard in all of them, so in the end I aim for casual but funky in a denim skirt, leggings and roll-neck jumper. Henry and Polly are absorbed in a train-crash drama when I pop my head into the sitting room to say goodbye, but Henry tears himself away to give our parting the gravity he feels is its due. Farewells are a serious matter for him, not to be taken lightly.
As I walk towards Crystal Palace station, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, and see with trepidation that I have a Facebook notification. When I click on it, though, it’s only a status update from Polly. Having fun matchmaking and living vicariously through Louise Williams on matchmymate.com, she’s written, tagging me so that it will appear on my page too. Thanks for letting everyone know I reply, adding a smiley face so she knows I’m not pissed off. Everyone and their dog seems to do internet dating these days, so I don’t mind my friends knowing. I think with a smile of the reaction some of them will have to Polly’s post, already looking forward to the comments, and I realise with a jolt that I’ve been looking for a way back into my life. Maybe this is it.
Chapter 5
2016
I’m rummaging in my handbag for my Oyster card when I first get the feeling someone is watching me.
There’s nothing specific that I can put my finger on, just an awareness, a prickling on the back of my neck. I glance around, but the station is busy with a mix of commuters on their way home and locals on their way into central London for a night out. I try and force myself to breathe evenly: I’m overreacting, letting my imagination run away with me. But my fingers stab uselessly inside my bag, the tension from them running all the way up to my shoulders, which are hunched as if in readiness for an attack.
I look around, my eyes sliding unseeing over the men to search out women of my age. Could that be her, that woman in the expensive-looking camel wool coat standing by the entrance? She pulls a compact from her bag and turns towards me slightly as she checks her make-up under the harsh fluorescent light. No, it’s definitely not her, but it strikes me what a futile exercise this is. My mental image of Maria is decades out of date anyway, and who knows what blows life has dealt her if she has somehow survived? My chances of recognising her are slim to none, yet still my eyes sweep the ticket hall: not her… not her… not her.
I move swiftly through the barriers and half-run down the stairs, trying to look as if I’m hurrying to catch a train, not running from something, or someone. I arrive breathless on the platform, more so than the run warrants, and push my way through the waiting passengers to the far end. My ragged breath is visible in the dark air before me, but a line of sweat trickles down my back. There’s still five minutes to wait for the train, so I stand close to the back wall, my bag gathered to me, eyes scanning the busy platform. When the train arrives, I get on and walk quickly down the first carriage, slipping into the second and pausing in the vestibule next to the toilet. I stand there a moment, trying to slow my breathing, but then the electronic door to the toilet slides open to reveal a young man vomiting into the toilet. I wince and walk down into the second carriage, taking a seat by the window. I rest my head against the glass, closing my eyes for a second against the houses that flash past with their glimpses of cosy family life through the lighted windows. I jerk round when I feel someone slip into the seat beside me, but it’s a young girl, talking very fast and angrily on her phone. She doesn’t take the slightest bit of notice of me.
At Victoria I cross the concourse, trying to keep my eyes ahead, telling myself I’m being absurd. Even if someone were following me, I’m in a crowded station. I am safe. I join the crowds surging down into the Underground and stand on the platform. We are packed in so tightly that I can only see those people closest to me, everyone else just a sea of hot bodies, cheeks still red and cold from the freezing air outside, sweating in their winter coats. There’s no way anyone could still be watching me now; it’s too busy.
By the time the tube pulls into South Kensington, I’ve convinced myself that I was being paranoid. I’ve allowed the fear I felt when I first got Maria’s friend request to overlay my life like an Instagram filter, turning everything a shade darker. No one is following me. I walk evenly up the steps from the platform, the knot in my stomach easing a little. The easiest route to Sophie’s flat, and the one I planned when I looked up her address earlier, is through the tunnel which runs under the roads to the museums. During the day it’s thronged with people – families going to see the dinosaurs in the Natural History Museum, tourists on their way to the V&A, but now although it’s not deserted, it’s quiet. I consider carrying straight on with the majority of people as they stream out of the main entrance, but then I give myself a mental shake. I’ve allowed myself to become cowed, afraid. I’m being ridiculous. I turn down the tunnel.
I’m about halfway along when I hear the footsteps. I can see a man about fifty yards ahead of me, but otherwise I am alone, apart from whoever is behind me. I speed up just a fraction, I hope not enough for anyone to notice, but I’m sure the footsteps speed up too. They echo around the tunnel; proper shoes, not trainers. I speed up a bit more; so do the shoes. I risk a glance behind me and I can see a figure in a black coat, hood up. I daren’t look for long and I can’t tell at this distance whether it’s a man or a woman. I’m not far from the end of the tunnel now and I am filled with a need to be outside where there are cars and people. I start to run, and so does the figure behind me. My handbag is flying up and down and the carrier bag in my hand containing a bottle of wine that I spent forty minutes choosing in the supermarket last night bangs against my leg with every stride. Blood roars in my head and my chest starts to burn, and then finally I see the exit, and a group of women in suits coming towards me, chatting and laughing. I slow my pace, breathing heavily. One of the women looks at me with concern.
‘Are you OK?’
I force a smile. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just… in a hurry.’